


The Princess's Son (Ba, Ba)

by 10moonymhrivertam



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (Let me quickly draw your attention back to the TCD & Harkness tags), (aka i'm so sorry sometimes i try to spruce things up with shit but i just keep coming back to fuck), (only chapter four if that's not your jam), Aftermath of Violence, Anger, Blood, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Dream Sequence, Drowners (The Witcher), Drunkenness, Episode: s01e01 The End's Beginning, Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Episode: s01e04 Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Epistolary, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harkness-Style Immortality, Horse Care, Light Angst, Mentioned Countess de Stael, Mentioned Valdo Marx, Mother-Son Relationship, Original Oxenfurt Professor(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), POV Multiple, Post-Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Post-Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Pre-Episode: s01e04 Banquets Bastards and Burials, Promises, Renfri | Shrike is Jaskier | Dandelion's Parent, Renfri's Band, Renfri's Brooch, Roach as a death omen /joke, Temporary Character Death, The author knows three expletives and is pretty sure the Continent doesn't believe in hell, Vomiting, Warnings Apply to Backstory, Witcher Signs (The Witcher), difficulty breathing, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10moonymhrivertam/pseuds/10moonymhrivertam
Summary: "Anything but revenge."It was the last promise Julian's mother asked of him before she rode away to Blaviken. Ten years later, Julian has a new nickname and a vicious wanderlust. At a tavern in Posada, he spots the hilt of a sword, and the rest makes history.
Relationships: Ellen Daven & Jaskier | Dandelion, Essi Daven & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Renfri | Shrike & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't find it via searching, but I swear there was a post by [@west-moor](https://west-moor.tumblr.com) about the general state of nobility and the likelihood that Jaskier and Renfri were related for that reason. The post mentioned immortality. I took a step to the left of the post and went 'hm. The age difference there is...not huge. And also what if Jack Harkness-style immortality'. (The age difference is so not-huge that I ended up nudging the Netflix timeline, actually, and the Black Sun was three years earlier.) Then this happened. For me, it's becoming something of a beast, which is entirely thanks to the The Witcher gen server, and especially thanks to [teamfreehoodies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreehoodies/pseuds/teamfreehoodies). This first chapter's pretty short, but I'll try to get more out to you soon. Enjoy!

“Dandelion, come here before I go.” Renfri held out her arms, and Julian dashed forward, snuggling into her. She squeezed him. “I want you to make me a promise, okay?” Her voice was soft but raw. Julian frowned - this must be serious. 

“What kind?” He asked, refusing to let go of her. She rested her chin on the top of his head.

Renfri sighed, tracing patterns on his back. “The kind that might be - trying. What I’m about to do...it might get me in trouble. I -“ Renfri hugged him tighter. “I might not be able to get back home.”

“What?” Julian’s voice went up. Renfri shushed him gently, kissing the top of his head. 

“I want to. I’m going to try to. But this is dangerous, Dandelion. Even so, I have to take this chance. I’m so sorry.” Renfri took a breath. “But I need you to promise me, Julian, that if I don’t come home...you won’t do anything about it.” She squeezed him, so he didn’t shout like he wanted to. “No matter what you hear. No matter what Stregobor might do. That bastard cannot have you, do you understand?” Julian squirmed, and Renfri loosened up her hug with an apology, finally pulling back to look at him. “I don’t trust him not to use any excuse he can to hurt you, too. So we’re not going to give him an inch. Not a thing he can twist about you the way he did me. Alright?” She cupped his face, looking into his eyes. “So that’s the promise. No revenge. I don’t care what else you do, love - swordplay, or poetry, or -“ She grasped for a third option, shook her head when she couldn’t seem to find one. “Anything but revenge. Promise?”

“Promise, Mummy.” Julian saw her eyes go misty. 

“That’s my boy.” Renfri hugged him once more. He held onto her tight. Before long, Nohorn murmured something to her. She gave Julian another squeeze before letting him go and standing up, stretching to rival an alley cat. “Be good for Gina, okay? She’ll have plenty to keep her hands full with the Academy students.”

“He’ll behave as well as his mother, I’m sure.” Gina grinned at Renfri. He looked up at her when her hand landed on his shoulder. Gina just squeezed, so his attention turned back to Renfri and the smile that had broken past the worried look on her face. 

“Oxenfurt is doomed.” Gina laughed. Julian let himself smile a little. 

“Alright. I really do have to go,” Renfri continued. “I’ll do my best to be home soon.” She bent to give Julian a kiss, then hugged Gina. “Farewell, you two.”

“Love you.” Renfri smiled. 

“Love you, too.” Julian watched her mount her horse. He joined several of the other children of Oxenfurt in chasing after her and her men.

“Goodbye!” He hollered as they reached the edge of town. “Bye, Renfri! Bye!” He shouted and waved until their horses’ tails were lost to the dust of the road.


	2. Chapter 2

Julian padded out of Gina’s apartment at the back of the inn barefoot and bed-headed, squishing his Shrike close to his side. The poor thing was made out of scraps and stuffed with down and barely looked like a bird at all, let alone any specific bird, but he and Renfri and Gina had all worked together on it when he was barely four. 

“G’morning, Gina.”

“Hey, Dandelion.” She smiled at him from behind the bar. “Hop on up. Do you want porridge or eggs?”

He wrinkled his nose as he considered it. “Porridge.”

“How’d you do at staying asleep?”

“Good.” He didn’t look at Gina - there were a few breakfast patrons, and the people who lived around Oxenfurt were so much more interesting than his bad night sleeping.  He could feel  her eyes on him, and he ducked behind Shrike, huffing at her. 

“Alright, alright. You don’t have a raccoon mask, I’ll let it go.”

The door creaked open, and Gina glanced up. She patted his head. 

“Be right back.” Julian kicked his feet and hummed, his eyes on the fresh porridge Gina had put on the heat for him. He really  _ had  _ gotten some good sleep after Gina sat with him for a bit. He just hadn’t gone this long without Renfri before, and he missed her so badly it ached. He squeezed Shrike, trying not to think about the promise he’d made.

Julian craned to look over his shoulder. The newcomer looked confused and was gesturing lightly - voices were rising on both sides. Julian bit back a smile. Over the years, he’d seen her throw a handful of rowdy patrons out with her bare hands, and he almost hoped he was about to add a new incident to that collection. His stomach growled before anything interesting happened, so he slipped down to go see if he could get away with finishing the porridge himself.  Gina got back before he’d done much more than drag stools around so he could reach the pot properly. 

“Get back in your seat, you little hellion.” He hopped down and scurried back to his seat. He got himself settled and placed Shrike on the counter so the bird was looking at Gina. Once it was settled, he plunked his chin on his hands to watch her pull a bowl from below the counter.

“You okay?” Julian asked after a few moments of staring at her. She wasn’t smiling as much as she was before, and her eyes were a little distant. 

“Just some gossip. I need a few more sources, first.” She raised her voice a little and winked to the nearest professor. He raised his glass to her without really looking. 

“You’re worried about it,” Julian accused.

“Eat your porridge.” She pushed the bowl across the bar. He bristled. He crossed his arms despite the growl of his stomach. Gina sighed. 

“Right. Forgot you’re your mother’s son.” She rubbed at her forehead.  “I don’t think it’s true, Dandelion. I’m worried it is, but I doubt it. I’ll have to look into it, later. That good enough?”

Julian frowned at her. When he decided she was on the edge of squirming, he nodded and tucked into his porridge. 

He was nearly finished when the door opened to admit a chattering crowd of students from the Academy. He dropped his spoon back into his bowl and shimmied off his stool, leaving Shrike behind on the counter.

“Ophi! You’re early!”

“Julian! Good morning!” She juggled her lyre into her other hand and ruffled his hair. “You’re the test audience for our midterm projects,” she said conspiratorially.

“A test audience,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

“Looked like you were having breakfast - go finish and then grab a good seat. Your feedback’s the best.” She ruffled his hair again, and he gently swatted at her hand and flattened his hair back down. He raced back to the counter to scarf down the rest of his porridge.

“Oh, chew it a  _ little _ .” Gina’s voice shook with laughter she didn’t let out. Julian grinned at her with cheeks puffed out by porridge before he swallowed it down and raced for the front of the room.

* * *

Julian’s eyes skipped back to the indent and he squeezed Shrike hard. There were so many interesting conversations in the inn, today, but the book was fascinating, too. Apparently, mages had made witchers. He’d always thought they just sort of happened, the way Renfri had just happened. People hated them as much as Stregobor hated Renfri and his princess ‘aunts’. It just wasn’t fair. 

“Thank you for letting him use your books, Antoni.” His ears caught on Gina’s voice. He kicked his feet and tried to read more. 

_ The witcher experiments bore some fruit. A race with a near-guaranteed control of chaos was born. The experiments were otherwise condemned, however: while witcher magic is incredibly combat practical, it is limited to the use of signs - a kind of magic where a mere gesture combined with the caster’s concentration may suffice. Those who have happened upon witchers in the line of duty may have seen these signs used. Igni is perhaps the most efficient way of starting a campfire, and Aard and Yrden are powerful combat tools. _

“Have you thought about enrolling him in the Academy?”

“If his mother doesn’t make it home soon, I just might.” Julian squeezed Shrike again, frowning. She must think he wasn’t listening. She sounded dark and worried. He tried to focus on the book again to distract himself. 

_Limited to...signs...gesture...line of duty...Igni is perhaps the most efficient way of starting a campfire, and Aard and Yrden are powerful combat tools._ _While these signs have served witchers through to the present day, a number of mages at Rissberg were unimpressed. Those conducting the experiments, as well as the witchers themselves, were banished from the institution._

“Have you had many witchers through the Riverside?” Alright. Julian might have to admit defeat. He looked up to see how Gina would respond. 

“Oxenfurt’s hardly monster territory,” Gina dismissed. Antoni leveled a look at her. “Last one that passed through had so little coin he didn’t even bother asking for a room; he just asked for the stable. That was so long ago, I don’t know if I’d even met Dandelion’s Mum yet.”

“I suppose you’re not likely to see another one again soon. Got some correspondence from a friend up north. One of ‘em got a new title.” 

“What’d this one do?” Gina asked. She mostly sounded tired, but she also sounded like she expected it to be really bad, and Julian felt himself bristling on the witcher’s behalf.

“Killed just about everyone in the market square, way I heard it. And all of them human.”

Gina frowned. Julian frowned, too. Witchers were monster hunters; not murderers of regular people. He knew that even without Antoni’s books.

“Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken,” Antoni continued. Gina looked away from the conversation, suddenly, straight at Julian.

“Julian! Oh, Dandelion, it’s about your lunchtime, isn’t it? Come on, give Antoni back his book. Let’s see what we've got for you, hm? And then after lunch, we can practice your letters or see if Szymon’s feeling generous with his instruments again.”

Julian gasped and jumped up. “Can I try the lute again?”

“We have to ask first,” Gina reminded, herding him away from the table and towards the counter. Julian could feel eyes on his back, but they didn’t matter much with the rumble of his stomach and the eager twitching of his fingers. 

* * *

Julian pelted after Rosa with a stick, its smaller branches stripped away. Gina had made him promise not to give it a point, since the other kids probably hadn’t trained with daggers like he had. Rosa shrieked with laughter and sprinted for the base - a little square marked with sticks and stones and currently filled with other children. Two took off when she stumbled in, and he veered to follow the nearest one, only for Valdo Marx to crash into him. 

“Hey,” he protested, glaring up from where he’d fallen to the ground. 

“Sorry, Julian,” Valdo said quickly. “But I’ve got the best story ever!”

“You sure it’s better than one of mine?” He picked himself up, brushing off the seat of his pants. 

“Mine’s true! And I know it’s true, ‘cause Mum wouldn’t tell me about it when she got home, but she  _ did  _ tell Philkivon, and  _ she _ told me.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Julian dared, crossing his arms imperiously. The other children gathered round. 

“So, Mum had business in Caingorn - I think it was to help with their library or something?” Valdo flapped a dismissive hand. “But on her way back, she stopped in Blaviken, right? And apparently, one of those Black Sun Princesses was there. You know, the dangerous ones?"

Julian suddenly felt very cold, even as chimes of acknowledgment went through the other children.

“It was, um - well, she was the only one left, whichever one that was.” Julian’s throat stuck. Did Valdo say ‘was’? Twice? His hand spasmed around his stick. “Anyway, she was there looking for Stregobor, even though no one’s heard from him in a bit, and she and her men took over the marketplace. But there was a witcher in town.” Valdo dropped his voice as though this were a simple ghost story being told at a festival. “He was already there doing regular witcher things and he hadn’t left yet.” Valdo paused, looking around at each of the children. “He killed her!” He proclaimed finally, drawing his finger across his throat. “And a whole bunch of other people in the square, too. They call him the Butcher of Blaviken, now.”

No. Julian had heard that name two weeks ago, before Gina had shooed him off for lunch. 

“You’re lying.” Julian held up his stick like it was a dagger, getting a proper grip on it now. 

“That’s what Phil told me!” Valdo insisted. 

“It’s a stupid story. Why’d he kill her?” Julian’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. The hand with the branch was steady. 

“I dunno - ‘cause she was gonna hurt the town or Stregobor or something. I dunno. But she killed a puppy when she was a princess, didn’t she?” Julian couldn’t name the noise that tore from his throat as he threw the stick aside and punched Valdo as hard as he could, taking them to the dirt. Some of the kids shrieked and scattered. Others cheered. Julian’s ears rang, especially once Valdo hit him back. He dodged - punched - a few times, tried to bite. He missed as often as he connected.

Suddenly, someone picked him up by the back of his shirt. He screeched and swung wildly, but he couldn’t connect with anything. Then he was turned and pressed into a suffocating hug - his screams turned into sobs as he recognized Gina' s scent. His fingers curled into the back of her dress - a single line mooring a rowboat to a dock in a hurricane.

* * *

“Julian, will you please come eat?” Gina was nearly whispering, but it hit his ears like a shout. He curled around Shrike.

“I miss having a nickname,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

For a moment, Gina didn’t say anything. The breath she took shook. “Do you want me to try again?”

Julian found himself shaking, and he shook his head.

“Hold on.” Gina disappeared from the doorway and the room was blessedly dark again. Not for long, though. When the door opened next, the scent of fresh bread touched his nose. Gina murmured a soft warning before she lit up the room. She came to sit on the edge of his bed. He peeked at her to find she had a sandwich for him, plus a book in her lap. He sat up. She arranged things so she could open her arms to him. She was tense, her eyes searching his face. He couldn’t bear it - he dove into her arms and snuggled against her, clinging to her. 

“It’s okay,” he mumbled. “That you wanted to make sure. I’m - I’m still mad, but I’m sorry I’m still mad. It's just...you knew she was in Blaviken when Antoni mentioned it -“

“I was hoping, still, that maybe it was something else that witcher had been accused of. Someone else who’d gotten mixed up with him. It’s okay to still be mad, darling. I just miss you. And I worry about you.” She smoothed her hands over his back, then gently rearranged him. “I, um - brought a book of flowers. Is that okay, or should we look at something else?”

“That’s okay.” He trembled again. Gina kissed the top of his head and opened the book, going through it with him. He found himself interested in the poisonous ones: the larkspurs had such a funny shape; and the irises had so many colors. He found himself transfixed when they turned to the page on buttercups. The book called them weeds, like it did dandelions, and the vivid yellow was soothing in its familiarity. They were poisonous, which he hadn’t known.

“Try that,” he said, pointing to one of the names at the head of the page.

“Jaskier?” She read. It didn’t make Julian burst into tears, which was an improvement over ‘Dandelion’. She hummed. “Well. Will you try and eat the sandwich for me, Jaskier?”

He picked up the sandwich, processing as he chewed the first bite. 

“‘S different.”

“Oh, swallow first!” Gina scolded lightly. 

“No.” Then he swallowed and stuck his tongue out.

“You put that back where it belongs, Jaskier.”

He grinned as he did what he was told. “I think I do want to try that one. At least for a while.”

“Alright. Do you want to finish eating alone, or do you want me to stay here?”

“Stay here?” He requested quietly. He was still mad, but suddenly the idea of letting Gina out of his sight was terrifying. Gina gave him a little squeeze. She stayed and stroked his hair while he ate his sandwich, and she didn’t move even as Julian dozed off in her lap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a decent debate with myself about where to end the chapter. Do you like it this way, or do you think it would be better if it ended at 'hurricane' and the next section were its own short chapter?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a quick line about exchange rates that was inspired by a [JackIronsides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackIronsides) tumblr post (I'll try to remember to link the specific post when I find it again)

It wasn’t too hard, being Julian of Oxenfurt, that kid who lived at the Riverside. People seemed to forget he’d had someone besides just Gina, before, and he supposed he was safer for it. It made it that much worse when he was eleven and caught Gina and Antoni whispering about enrolling him in the Academy, though. He had torn through the dining room and slammed the door to the apartment hard enough to make the artwork on the walls rattle. He’d apologized to them later, and they started the slow process of warming him up to the idea of it. By the time he was thirteen, he’d shaken off the association of the first time he’d heard about the Butcher. He also found out that Szymon had been assuming he’d go, all this time, and had already drawn up a suggested course of study. 

Well, it was hard to argue with that. 

The next year found him settled into the dormitories, and he raced from class to class. He hadn’t known Antoni taught astrology as well as history, but after years of borrowing his books and listening to his bottomless trivia, he was delighted to be able to learn from him properly. In his quest to relax between classes, he discovered a few things. Certain activities in the outdoors were to be saved for late spring and early autumn; the girls’ dormitories were an absolute bitch to sneak into, and that was  _ with _ his partner’s help; he was the type of person who wanted to kiss pretty people when he disagreed or argued with them (rhetoric was going to be the death of him, how were all his classmates so attractive?); if there was anything that could make him forgive Valdo Marx for being the one who inadvertently told him about his mother, it wasn’t time, and it wasn’t hungry, angry snogging in the hall (Valdo got top marks in rhetoric, and didn’t even hold Jaskier’s ill manners against him,  _ fuck _ that man).

And then there were the truly relaxing moments, the quiet ones that weren’t charged with anything at all. Veterinary students who somehow corralled a handful of dogs for them to play with around exams; dramatic students who would take over the courtyards with wonderful skits that distracted even teachers from making it to class on time; a nearly-dead night at the Riverside with a circle of first-year music students going around and singing whatever pleased them - great ballads, bawdy pub tunes, their own compositions: all without the pressure of an audience’s reception. He usually had to ignore Valdo for the latter, but there was a girl who always sat beside Jaskier - Ellen - who would join him in ignoring Valdo. He had no idea if he’d done something to her or if she’d just taken a disliking to him, but it was gratifying to have someone to hate Valdo with.

He stuck with Ellen after that, finally noticing which classes they had together. When her little sister arrived two years behind them, she already knew Jaskier, to his pleasant surprise. He hadn’t realized Ellen had quite so many good things to say about him. And Essi called him Jaskier all the time, too, which was a little unusual. He was Julian of Oxenfurt in the school’s records, but to his classmates who liked drinking at the Riverside, he was Jaskier most of the time - never  _ always _ , though, except with Essi. It made him feel like a new person: Jaskier the bard's lost parent was a mysterious, anonymous hole, but Gina was _obviously_ his mother, and she was warm and well-known. Julian also tentatively imagined that Jaskier the bard had two sisters, and he invited them to holidays at the Riverside accordingly.

His last two years, he was the most himself he’d been since losing Renfri. He liked people, and being with people. He was excelling in music, snogging in the halls after rhetoric, and he could trace every constellation Antoni had ever taught him without a reference book. Ellen and Essi had reached the points of inviting themselves over, and Gina was always happy to see them. He was introducing himself more often as Jaskier than Julian, and his examination composition was slowly but surely filling his notebook. He hoped none of the professors who examined him would notice that he never played it again after his final. It was very poetic, but it contained too much of his and Renfri’s story to be safe in the world at large.

He graduated. Ellen kissed him on each cheek and set off to find a court to play in, promising to bring back souvenirs someday. He watched her set off, and it was like the wind took her. He didn’t worry for her. This wasn’t a lonely figure fighting a headwind in a gale, but a maple seed allowing fate to take it where it would. In contrast, Essi seemed more a part of Oxenfurt every day. On the weekends, she’d taken to waitressing in the Riverside, practically dancing between tables. He wanted to be like her. He thought he was. A fixture of the Riverside, of Oxenfurt. But his leg bounced as he sat at a table near the bar and watched some of the other graduates celebrate.

“It’s not wrong to want to leave.” He startled at Gina’s voice. She squeezed his shoulder as he looked back and up.

“But this is home.” That much was true. He knew that down in his bones. No matter who else Jaskier ended up being, there was a tether to Oxenfurt there.

“I like to think it was home for her, too.” He could barely hear Gina above the din. “She still took you camping every summer, didn’t she?”

Jaskier was quiet as he absorbed that. Gina’s hand smoothed soothingly across his shoulder.

“Birds have more than one home, little lark. Who’s to say you can’t, too?” Jaskier chewed at his lip, contemplating that.

“Are you sure?”

“As long as you write, I’ll be fine.”

“Will you help me pack?”

“Of course, Jaskier.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and he leaned back against her.

* * *

He followed the Pontar, for lack of a better plan. After ten years without a summer camping trip, he aimed for beds more often than not, though he still remembered how to start a fire and skin a rabbit. He wasn’t good at it - Renfri had let him off the hook as soon as he showed he  _ could _ do it, singing to him and wiping away his tears. Nonetheless, it was enough to get by. By the time he reached Posada, he was regretting how often he’d avoided camping. He was nearly at the end of the Pontar, yes, but now he had to turn around, and he’d already used most of the money Gina had given him. The exchange rate when he’d entered Kaedwen had been a bitch. That, or the mayor of that little town had taken one look at his outfit and decided to scam him.  The bawdy tunes that did best at taverns were starting to wear thin, but he didn’t yet have any songs that were actually performable. Fuck it. At the next town, he was going to improvise something and let the chips fall where they would. He’d seen enough terrible performances at the Riverside to know that if he didn’t earn any money, he’d at least get some free bread, which actually sounded mouthwateringly good. He might be worse off than he thought.

While he’d planned for it, the ‘boo’s still stung, and he jeered in return as he returned Szymon’s old lute to its case. The emotion fell away as he bent to collect the bread, stuffing it into his pants to maximize how much of his meal he could carry. He’d probably have to retire to his room if he wanted to eat in peace, given that he’d annoyed everyone...

Jaskier’s eyes caught on the corner and narrowed. Not _everyone_. The man at the corner table had thrown neither bread nor coin. Strange - even people nominally without opinions usually got caught up in the energy of a room. He hopped to his feet, grabbed an ale, and crossed the room. He’d expected it to be a little harder to wheedle a review from the stranger, considering he claimed he was there to drink alone, but he came right out with his opinion once Jaskier sat down across from him. Now Jaskier got a good look at the whole of him, though, besides that stand-out hair. His eyes were golden.

“White hair....big, old loner. Two very -“ Jaskier’s words caught in his throat. It was the bag with the swords in it that he'd noticed. Both hilts stuck out, but one's cross-guard was caught against the edge of the bag, revealing a golden circle at the base of the blade. Two red jewels at the top center. Four green jewels to either side. And at the bottom, a fifth green jewel. Not that he could see it. He didn't have to. “Very,” he managed to find his voice before it could be suspicious. “Scary-looking swords. I know who you are.”

Geralt of Rivia stood. Jaskier saw red. The Butcher didn’t get to just walk away with his murdered mother’s brooch. Drawing attention to him didn’t work quite as well as Jaskier’d hoped, instead landing him a job. He hurried after him, not wanting to give him any chance of escape. He let his mouth run as it would, taking a kernel of malicious glee in pointing out the onion scent. Geralt of Rivia either had a very good poker face or quite thick skin, or both. He surprised himself with the optimistic tone in “death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak”. After all, the Butcher had already brought him two of those things directly.

“Ooh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the - the Butcher of Blaviken.” He relished the taste of the title in his mouth. The way it hung in the air was viscerally satisfying. He shouldn’t have gotten caught up in it. It made the fist seem like it came out of nowhere. 

He couldn’t catch his breath back. He’d had the wind knocked out of him once before, falling out of a tree. It had seemed like it had taken hours for Renfri to come to him and hold his hand. It was probably barely minutes, if that. The panic of lost breath stretched time, then and now. Long enough for him to remember his promise to Renfri and break his own heart. He’d nearly broken his promise. Over a piece of jewelry - a sentimental improvised weapon, but far from as useful as the daggers he hid on his person. 

When he could breathe again, he straightened to find that the witcher hadn’t moved far. He seemed to be checking the horse’s reigns, but coincidentally finished just as Jaskier straightened up. Well. That was almost cute. Jaskier dug claws right into a tender title, and he waited to make sure he hadn’t done permanent damage. He suppressed a smile. 

“You really do pack a wallop!” He crowed. He regretted it a little, his stomach still aching. “What’s this going to take, two minutes?”

Jaskier thought he caught an eyeroll as the witcher mounted his horse, and Jaskier powered through the lingering ache to keep pace with the pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later in the evening than the other two, sorry! I dithered about where to end this. I don't wanna regurgitate _too_ much of the show because I don't think I'm planning to fully change anything, but I did start walking through a couple paragraphs of how his motivations change for the rest of Four Marks before deciding it was too unwieldy for this week. Besides, next week's chapter can probably make good use of it.
> 
> Next chapter is going to get a tiny bit experimental in formatting, we'll see what happens XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! We're doing an experiment here, format-wise. I hope it's not too jarring, it just felt fun and good for the fic.
> 
> You might notice some disagreement with the Netflix timeline here. That has to do with me hearing somewhere on tumblr or the wider internet that there were ten years between Rinde and the mountain and internalizing it. I adjusted the timeline accordingly, but I might pull a take-backsies later, we'll see what the vibes are.
> 
> I've tried to make this screen-reader friendly, but there's a paragraph in the first section which is probably not. In the paragraph beginning "I'm probably reading", Jaskier interrupts the letter with some introspection, and then it switches back to the letter. First person-third person-first person should help. I'll try to remember to fix that up.

Jaskier was slouched against the headboard, laying on top of the covers. The little slab of wood that served as his writing desk was balanced across his knees: a piece of parchment lay tauntingly blank on top of it. He let the feathered end of his pen brush across his lips as he stared into the middle distance. Slowly, he lowered his pen.

_Dear Gina,_

_Let me preface everything I’m about to say with this: I’m hale and hearty enough to write you from the safety of my room at Posada’s inn. Now that you are both sufficiently apprehensive and soothed, I have to decide which of today’s happenings to start with._

_I wrote a song that’s almost entirely horseshit. Apparently, kernels of truth and a good bit of violence are all that you need, because it did well with a crowd that pelted me with bread just this morning. The problem with it doing well is that it might spread to Oxenfurt before I get home, which means I have to tell you what else happened today before you hear it from someone else._

_I got kidnapped today because I followed Geralt of Rivia to Dol Blathanna._

“Nope. Nope. Nope.” Jaskier picked up the writing desk and set it to the side, hopping up and shaking out his hands. Oh, Gina was going to hate that. Gina was going to hate that a lot. Was there any way to phrase it that wouldn’t terrify her and make her angry? Probably not. It took several more minutes of pacing before he dared sit down and pick the pen up again.

_We were both at the inn. I didn’t realize, at first. I went up to him because he didn’t boo me or throw anything. I might’ve passed him by without ever caring who he was if it wasn’t for his swords._

_He has her brooch. It’s on one of the swords. I got so angry. Yelling his name got him a job, and I didn’t even think, I just ran after him. I said some truly stupid things - suffice it to say, I’m probably lucky I was only punched in the stomach. Apparently getting the wind knocked out of me makes me think...I remembered the promise she had me make. We both know who she was talking about in spirit, but in practice, it was him it was about. So I stopped saying stupid things._

_By that point, I was actually interested in the devil, and I didn’t know how to say_ _why_ _I wanted the brooch without things getting dangerous very quickly. I was hoping maybe I’d be able to just steal it. By the time he was distracted enough for that to be viable, I was getting knocked out by an elf._

_The elves were less than pleased we were so close to the mountains and beating up their friend, to say the least. They tied us up and took a couple of cheap shots, and I am proud to report my face is no less pretty for it. They broke the lute Szymon gave me (tell him sorry for me, please)._

_And then...well, even with all the shit I’d given him, he told them to let me go._

_I’m probably reading too much into their conversation._ What had the witcher meant by the lesser evil? From the way he structured the sentence, obviously something he hated himself for. But witchers lived long lives, and he could be talking about any number of difficult choices. _Filavandrel sounded like her, though. I almost cried. Hearing the elves were forced into the mountain was like hearing about my aunts and learning most of them were dead before I was born, and for so little reason. To know that I was to them what mages are to our family...I wouldn’t have faulted him if he ran us through. I think I’m still surprised that he let us loose. I don’t think I’ll ever understand that he felt_ _he_ _needed to apologize to_ _me_ _via a new lute. It sounds fantastic, though, and I’m hoping it’s going to be a little hardier than a non-elven one._

_On the way out, I decided that if I’m going to give Geralt of Rivia a chance at civility, the rest of the Continent is damn well going to have to do it, too. I think White Wolf works. Still sounds dangerous, but it’s got a chance at not carrying quite the same assumptions as ‘Butcher’ does. Speaking of the new title, I’m going to sketch out the chart for the new song in my letter to Essi - she’ll be able to play_ _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ _for you. Sorry in advance: it really does lay it on quite thick. On the bright side, I was actually able to buy supper tonight, and I have plenty of money for the turn-around trip._

_I’ll write again soon! Please don’t kill me when I get home._

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_Please promise me that you will not ever, ever bathe in a river if you travel, no matter how convinced you are that there couldn’t possibly be drowners about. I’ll probably have some nice claw-mark scars on my leg to show you when I get home. Also a scar from a nick with a sword. A silver one. I’d been so scared because I didn’t think anyone was near, but I suppose a witcher would’ve heard the splash when I fell from further off than I would’ve noticed anyone else camping._

_I was relieved for a second...and then more scared when he pulled me up out of the water and I saw it was Geralt of Rivia, because I could feel where he’d accidentally got me with the sword, and I didn’t want him to notice it. It was all very splashy, but I think the order of events was that he shoved me up onto the bank, and then finished dicing the drowner. I wish I’d been a little less worried about being naked and the dirt and the blood. The fight sounded impressive, but I didn’t do much looking at it._

_After he killed the thing, he sloshed up onto the shore and left without a word, and I thought that was the end of it. I kept thinking about whether I’d be able to walk or have to crawl back to camp, and how dirty my legs were going to get, but just when I was getting into a proper spiral over it, he came back with bandages. Still didn’t say a word, just knelt down in front of me and started wiping off my legs to put the bandages on. I’m grateful for it now, but at the time it made everything worse. I guess my allergy doesn’t look the same as a monster’s reaction. He sort of frowned at where he got me with the sword, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t skewer me, so...that’s a win, I suppose. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was more upset that he nicked me than concerned about the reaction to silver._

_Nothing else to say, really. He gave me a drowner lecture - if you can call it a lecture. It was about five sentences, but I think that’s the most I’ve heard him say at once. And then he went off to his camp, and I went back to mine, and I went to sleep and tried to not think about anything._

_If I managed to make it to a town to post this to you, then I suppose that means I didn’t do anything excessively stupid, and he didn’t decide my silver allergy was suspicious. I promise I’ll be more careful. I can’t wait to hug you all again._

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_I can’t tell you anymore than Ellen’s letters can, sorry. I haven’t been anywhere courtly to hear rumors. But if she’s writing you, I’m sure she’s fine. I’m fine and I’m writing you; do you interrogate every stranger who walks into the Riverside on my well-being? (That was rhetorical.)_

_Will you see if Essi listens any better if you’re the one that tells her that I haven’t written anything else yet? I don’t have new charts for her, and I’m sorry, I’ll try to think of something else._

_I met Geralt again. I_ _promise_ _nothing life-threatening happened this time. I was milling about in town. By how absolutely filthy he was, he must’ve been coming back from hunting something. The innkeeper was an arsehole about letting him order a bath, so I ordered one and then turned around and told him which room I’d been staying in - don’t worry, I was planning to check out and get back on the road again this afternoon, anyway. I told him I was making up for those bandages from last time. Maybe if I follow him a ways, I can get another chance at the brooch or a new chart for Essi._

_It’s funny. I just saw how filthy he gets back from hunts. The brooch looked pristine back in Posada, and I have a funny feeling it’s going to be pristine the next time I see it, too. It’s not how I would’ve expected someone like that to treat something like that..._

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_Still alive, same as yesterday, and the several days before that where you’ve asked me to write you daily. Today we - well, Geralt - fought a vampire. On that note, tell Essi to open her letter and then stop fucking nagging me._

_With the leaves turning, I think I’ll be parting ways with Geralt and heading home soon. Didn’t end up getting the brooch, but it’s not like it’ll be going anywhere. At least I did get Essi her song._

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_I’ve run into Geralt again this year! He didn’t bother to try to tell me to leave this time, he just rolled his eyes when I started following him down the road. The winter didn’t give me any better ideas for safely getting the brooch. I suppose I could just come right out and ask: after what I’ve seen, I don’t think he’d run me through for it, but it would be awkward after so many months, wouldn’t it? And I owe Essi a few more charts before I get dropped by the only muse I’ve ever really had._

_How’s things at home? Valdo still trying to convince people his songs are any good? Ellen visited at all? Any monsters nearby enough to make things exciting?_

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_What part of my handwriting makes ‘medium heat’ read like ‘high heat’? I am offended, dear madam, that you think I would pass on a subpar recipe. Actually, you may have to bump the spices up a bit. Geralt was actually the one who asked the farmer for her recipe, I just wrote it down. With his nose and his tongue? As-is, it may be too subtle for the rest of us._

_I suppose we’re coming up fast on a year since I wandered into Posada. Have I thanked you yet for telling me it was okay if I wanted to go? I like this. Being able to go places but having somewhere to come back to. Someone. I love you and Essi and Ellen so much. I should see if I can prod our path in her direction. Was Aedirn temporary or did she put down roots there?_

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_~~I think~~ _

_~~So that’s what~~ _

~~_Gina, I_ ~~

_I think I understand what you two were giving me those looks for over the winter. Someone called us friends and I didn’t even_ _think_ _to argue until he did. I got upset, even. And then it all hit me in the gut at once and I had to excuse myself and the bastard followed me, all concerned that I was sick,_ _immediately_ _after denying we were friends._

_It’s only been a fucking year. I know I get attached quickly. Hell, all it took to be friends with Ellen was that she didn’t like Valdo, either. But to the_ _Butcher of Blaviken_ _?_ _What’s wrong with me, Gina?_

_I might not write for a while. I think I need to get far away, as fast as I can. Get ourselves out of each other’s orbits. Fuck, that means going back to the bawdy songs to make money. I don’t even care._

_Love you. I’ll be careful. Write you when I settle._

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_So. First things first. I’m not dead. Possibly against the gods’ wishes, given...everything. I’m so sorry it’s been so long._

_He’s now officially saved my life too many times for me to_ _not_ _assume some kind of extenuating circumstances when it came to Blaviken. This time it was a griffin. The bestiaries at the Academy make them sound all majestic. They do not look remotely majestic when you’ve stumbled into one’s territory, just terrifying._

_He didn’t ask me about why I left, which sort of makes me feel guilty, but mostly I’m glad. I don’t think it would be dangerous to tell him about her, not anymore, but...I don’t know how, now._

_Geralt of Rivia is my friend. Feels even stranger to write than it was to realize._

_Sorry if I scared you._

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_Haven’t gotten any good soup recipes, but I’ll keep an eye out. There was a marvelous bread recipe two towns back; if I got it down in my notebook, I’ll tear that page out and enclose it for you. Road food’s starting to get a little stale; got any ideas for introducing some novelty without going bankrupt or poisoning ourselves?_

_I know Essi likes knowing how many ‘Riverside’s are out there; tell her we’ve got another one in Lyria, along the Yaruga. It’s got nothing on home, but I suppose Oxenfurt’s a bit bigger than most of these Lyrian towns, with the Academy and all. Oh, remind me to enclose another draft for the bestiary - I’d rather send the entries all ahead and get them approved or shot down now and edit them when I’m home for the winter._

_I’m feeling a little unsettled again. Don’t worry, it’s not like when I panicked three years ago. Well, it might be_ _like_ _it, but I won’t disappear off the face of the world again. Geralt and I had to split for a week or two - contracts that conflicted with bardic obligations. I don’t recall what the conversation was about, my brain stalled a little too hard, but - I realized when everything was over that I’d called him my best friend. I don’t know how to feel about that. I know Ellen and Essi are as good as sisters now, but shouldn’t I be counting Ellen my best friend? But when I talk about her, it ends up being ‘my sister’, or ‘my best friend_ _in Oxenfurt_ _’, and Geralt didn’t get that kind of qualifier._

_I think I need to take some time to myself. I’ll write, but if you hear witcher stories drifting through, don’t worry as much as usual. I’m looking at some festivals and competitions nearby. Hopefully news of those and my wins will reach you, and not just witcher rumors. Speaking of - thank Szymon for me? If he hadn’t given me lessons when I was little I don’t know if I’d have gotten this far, gorgeous elven lute or no._

_Love,_

* * *

_Dear Gina,_

_Guess who won the qualifier to play at the Cintran princess’s betrothal feast? Ellen may never forgive me; she was in the running, too. Unfortunately, it was structured more in favor of popularity than artistry, and as soon as I pulled out_ _Toss A Coin_ _, the crowd got rather frenzied. I’m glad for all the song’s done for me, but I do wish the others would rank above that. It’s - what - five years old, coming up on six? I’ve learned a lot, and there are songs that are less dishonest. Then again, I suppose that one’s grown into more truth than it started with. _

_I’m just so happy, Gina! It’s going to be the party of the century! I’ll likely be allowed a plus-one, but I’m afraid to try and coordinate that through the post, and I wouldn’t ask you to leave the Riverside like that. I’m probably just going to ask Geralt. (Even after giving myself room to breathe...I think he’s still my best friend. Please don’t hate me for that.) I wonder what sort of double-speak I’d have to pull to convince him to come along despite the crowds. Then again, simple bribery will almost certainly work. Let me know what’s popular at the Academy lately? The crowd ought to lean a little younger, given Princess Pavetta’s age, and it would help me build a set-list if I know what’s popular when people are a bit too deep in their cups._

_I’ll let you know how it goes!_

_Love,_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarification: I have decided that Jaskier and Renfri share the same silver "allergy".  
> Trivia: Jaskier has a dimeritium allergy which Renfri doesn't share.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's credits! First, to the Witcher server I'm in for extensive book knowledge, which has come in very helpful, especially when I do something like remark on how it was rather ballsy of Eist to just...announce they were getting married and not think he was going to get rejected again, and they tell me that he did actually propose again in the books.
> 
> Which leads me to this: thank you, [1848pianist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist), for: _"still though, what a weird place to propose "oh, looks like your daughter is creating a small indoor tornado. anyway, want to get married?""_ , I have happily paraphrased it for the sake of the fic.

Jaskier circled the tub, his mouth running. He became aware of a sour feeling building in his stomach: he’d never considered at length whether Renfri would’ve approved of his rather careless adventures in bed, but there was something about ostensibly hiring Geralt to protect him from those consequences that brought the questionability of his choices into stark relief. Home wrecking wasn’t exactly the puppy-murder Renfri had been accused of so long ago, but it would certainly be an excuse for any wicked wizard that took a dislike to him. 

He hated that Geralt was arguing the word ‘friend’ with him, even after all these years, even after Jaskier had worked through his assortment of mental hoops to be comfortable saying it aloud himself. Maybe snatching Geralt’s ale wasn’t _all_ out of an interest in keeping the Witcher’s head clear.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Jaskier dismissed, setting the ale gently on the dresser. “You never get involved. Except you actually _do, all_ of the time.” _You got involved in Stregobor’s petty squabble. You killed my mother._ But that was likely how he’d learnt the lesson in the first place, Jaskier supposed. Plus, to say so out loud would bring the mood down, not to mention confuse the hell out of Geralt, considering the years Jaskier had avoided telling him for so far. Sometimes, he did still find himself fueled by hurt, his vindictive streak flaring up, but Geralt would always do something heartfelt - brave or kind or guileless, and Jaskier would settle into himself again. 

Since his thoughts had wandered into maudlin territory, anyway, he threw a question out between them that was sort-of a question and sort-of an offer and sort-of a plea. Renfri had never, in her life, earned the chance to relax, and he hated the idea that Geralt was denying himself such a thing. Jaskier wanted that for himself, someday. Not yet. Not soon. He was older than Renfri had ever had the chance to be, but still only barely. He rather hoped Geralt could join him in relaxation, when the time came.

But either he was oblivious or being a deliberate bastard, and so Jaskier maybe took a tiny bit of malicious glee in admitting he’d sent his clothes to be laundered.

* * *

Perhaps he should’ve thrown the competition in Ellen’s favor. Geralt’s company had actually come in handy almost immediately, _and_ the bastard had gone about it in the most mortifying way possible. His pride stung at the sharpness of Calanthe’s criticism, even if it was reasonable. Just when it had recovered, the fickle thing tried to flee again when Geralt admitted the truth of that day in Dol Blathanna to a room full of nobles. His staple song seemed to be safe for the future, however, if the disappointed groans were anything to go by - people would rather remember a bracing story in the face of a boring truth. His purse was happy about that, and he rather liked that ‘White Wolf’ would endure as the first title people associated with Geralt. Why should anyone but his family and the people of Blaviken _get_ to use the other one, anyway?

The party did eventually start to feel like any other noble party he’d been hired for. He sang and loped across the room between speeches and proposals. Of course, then that fell apart again with Urcheon’s arrival. Jaskier’s fascination with Urcheon’s cursed visage was quickly overpowered by fear for his friend. Turning down a royal rarely ended well, and Calanthe seemed dead-set on stopping whatever was going on here. Thankfully, it didn’t end in an order for Geralt’s execution. Hearing Urcheon was acting on the Law of Surprise sent a shiver down his spine. He’d heard of it before, and it never failed to unsettle him, what-ifs regarding the past haunting him for weeks afterward. Before he could decide whether to back away or sling his lute across his back and pull out one of his daggers, there was suddenly someone being pressed into his side.

“Keep her away,” someone said into his ear, and he suddenly found himself with no free hands and someone to keep safe from possible blood splatter. Which seemed very likely, until Geralt rushed by with his sword drawn and cut the halberd clean in half.

“Shit. Now it’s a fight,” Jaskier muttered. He found himself holding his lute between them and the fight, which he hated himself a little for, but just one of his daggers wasn’t long enough to protect his sudden charge, and he feared drawing one may make him more of a target than ‘wide-eyed bard’, anyway.

“It wasn’t before?”

“My lady, that was very nearly an execution.”

“KILL THEM BOTH!”

_“This_ is a fight.” The guards rushed forward, and his eyes desperately tracked flashes of metal and swathes of black. Sure, Geralt had been outnumbered before, but this was - well, it was dramatic, to say the least. He heard Eist’s voice, but the knowledge that it was now three-on-the-rest-of-the-room didn’t do much to comfort him, especially not with the fight bleeding toward the edges of the room. Movement past the high table caught his eyes - Calanthe, moving swiftly, first to Eist, and then to Geralt. His heart hammered, and relief fluttered through him when she called for a stop.

His charge didn’t stop holding him as stories filtered through the air of the room, and she looked up at him as he exhaled slowly through his nose at Geralt’s declaration about promises. It wasn’t as though there was any hidden meaning behind Geralt’s lecture to a queen, but it still felt significant - belying Geralt’s denial of destiny. Only a promise honored had gotten them this far, not that he could know that.

Calanthe’s attempt to exert control over destiny only reinforced his reluctant belief. The shockwave threw him back, but not as hard as it should have. A great deal of it was displaced air, but there was enough magic in it for his resistance to gentle the force. Hitting the wall hurt, but didn’t wind him. His charge was still beside him, and her hands seemed so small against the force of Pavetta’s magic. He opened his arms, and she curled into him. He wrapped his arms around her, just in time for the glass to blow out above them. He flinched as a fine shard grazed the back of his neck, cocooning closer around her.

“What’s your name?” He asked, trying not to shout into her ear despite the noise.

“Faffora.”

“Jaskier.” His attention funneled away from introductions and back toward the maelstrom. Pavetta and Urcheon rose at the center of it, suspended by chaos alone. His eyes caught on an aberrant movement at a pillar further down on their side of the room.

“If he gets hit in the head by a chair, I’m not stitching it up,” he muttered. Faffora shifted in his arms, and he glanced at her to find that she was watching Geralt, as well.

“If anyone’s got a chance here, it’s him or the druid,” Jaskier narrated, his eyes now fixed on Geralt. He watched him throw his arm out. He couldn’t quite see how his fingers were shaped. “That’s a sign - witcher magic. Can’t tell which one from here. Probably the one that does shields, or the one that knocks people back.” He really did need to ask Geralt the names of the damn things. He’d seen him use the knockback sign in damn near every fight he’d pestered his way into watching, but he still couldn’t say what it was called. “Ooh.” He hissed as Geralt slid back along the floor. “Not to worry, he’ll have something up his sleeves - or inside his jacket. Hah! Who’s a sad silk trader now; I grabbed that one for a _reason_. At any rate, looks like a potion - oh, fuck you, witcher. There’s not enough glass on the floor?” Jaskier fell quiet a moment to watch. Geralt waded forward again, getting closer than the last time. And closer... “The hell are you waiting for?” He muttered. His heart jumped into his throat when Pavetta looked to Geralt, her head turning sharply. Before she could do anything, he threw out his arm again. Whether it was the potion or Pavetta’s distraction, it worked this time. The room was plunged into darkness as the couple at the middle of the room dropped like ragdolls.

Jaskier and Faffora stood up together, and it seemed neither of them were inclined to let go of the other just yet. They crept forward with the crowd, Jaskier guiding her in Geralt’s direction. A betrothal feast was set to become a double-wedding in a matter of moments. While the supplies were gathered and the matter of Calanthe and Eist’s officiant was muttered about, Faffora tucked herself into his chest. He linked his hands behind her back, resting his cheek against her head. The contact helped soothe his lingering urge to fight or flee.

They swapped idle conversation as they watched the servants rush about to gather candles and cushions and binding cloths. His music, at first. A little astronomy, a little literature. And then, of course, there was always local gossip.

“There were rumors she’d turned him down.” Faffora smoothed her hand across his chest. “I wonder when she changed her mind.”

Jaskier pondered that. “There’s...a fair chance that it went something like: ‘that’s the worst indoor storm I’ve ever seen, well done on the ferociously magical daughter. Say, have you changed your mind on marriage?’.”

Faffora turned her head into his chest to smother a giggle. He grinned and did his best to disguise her shaking shoulders. By the time Mouseack had taken the binding cloth into his hands, they’d managed to compose themselves. Jaskier was smiling to himself throughout the ceremony, rocking Faffora ever-so-slightly back and forth. The weddings he’d attended had always left him feeling hopeful and pleasantly distant from his past. That public commitment was so opposite from everything his mother had gone through - it was foolish to believe it could prevent future hardship, but...well, he couldn’t help it. And he’d rather believe it than not.

Calanthe and Eist kissed. Jaskier suspected there might’ve been applause if everyone’s hands weren’t busy with the candles, then wondered if that was the main purpose, ahead of lighting the area. The thought scattered quickly, though, as the King and Queen were released and rose. Mouseack and Eist took Urcheon and Pavetta’s places among the spectators, and Calanthe moved to the place Mouseack had held. Jaskier stilled himself. Faffora readjusted herself but made no move to pull away.

The second marriage began. They reached the second kiss of the evening, and Jaskier felt like he could walk on air - at least until the growling started in the still moment that followed. Jaskier turned, keeping himself between Faffora and Lord Urcheon’s sudden fit. Who knew what conditions the curse might have, what a kiss might do to it?

Except...perhaps it was a true love’s kiss, because suddenly, he was staring at hair rather than spines. His arm dropped as he relaxed, and her hand fell away from his chest. The way Pavetta and Urcheon looked at each other - the way they raced to kiss again...Jaskier’s eyes burned, but he refused to blink, letting the tears well up as they would.

“Whew. I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet.” Faffora produced a handkerchief and he took it gratefully, smiling at her.

“If you’re alive in the morning.” He startled - he’d half-forgotten Geralt was behind him now. “Don’t...grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn.”

That _bastard_. As though the euphemism would go over anyone’s head in this crowd, and while everyone was circled up in hearing range. He immediately turned back to Faffora.

“That wasn’t my intention, I swear. Unless you’d like to, but -”

“No, wait! Wait!” 

What followed was exactly what Geralt deserved for his claims of disinterest, Jaskier supposed, but he wasn’t entirely without sympathy. He pulled at Faffora’s hand, craning to watch Geralt walk away. Mouseack, unattached, moved faster than he did. Geralt had trouble talking about serious things at the best of times, and even Jaskier had no idea what to say, so he elected to let the druid handle this. He rocked back toward Faffora, his good mood evaporated.

“You. Bard.” He straightened up at the sound of Calanthe’s voice, every lesson in posture he’d ever gotten in his life kicking in at once. “Is that your kerchief, or the lady’s?”

“The lady’s, Your Majesty.”

“May I?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Faffora nodded. Jaskier held it out and let it unfurl, watching as Calanthe took it to wipe Pavetta’s mouth. It was passed off to a servant with a command to have it laundered immediately so it could be returned. Then Calanthe turned her attention back to them, and Jaskier wondered if he was about to die without even ‘groping for trout’.

“You won the competition?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Calanthe hummed, and Jaskier very carefully did not think of Geralt. Her stare lingered, and he fought the urge to run. She must have decided either to summon him later, or that whatever she was thinking needn’t be voiced. Her eyes flickered to either side of him.

“The festivities are over. You may find your way back to your rooms.” Her voice nearly sent frost down his spine. Everyone else’s, as well, judging by how quickly the guests scattered. Faffora’s hand didn’t drop from his, even after they passed through the doors. He stopped them in a corner, people still trickling by them.

“Faffora, darling, who did you come in with?”

“My brother. But he was quick to pass me off when Lord Urcheon first arrived.” She scowled.

“You’ve no interest in going back?” He confirmed. She shook her head vehemently.

“Right, then. My chambers it is.” He resumed their place in the flow of people, leading her gently to the room they’d provided him. It was among the more modest of the possibilities, he was sure, but considering what the inns around him could usually manage, it was heavenly.

Faffora sat on the edge of the bed, and Jaskier grabbed the pitcher that had played centerpiece on the table to pour a couple of glasses. Mead, by the color and smell. He offered one of the glasses to her and then took a seat beside her.

“So. There was a competition to play?” Faffora took a sip of her drink - larger than was necessarily ladylike, but Jaskier felt it was appropriate to the chaos of the last few hours. Jaskier happily took the opening to talk about his experience. She seemed content mostly to listen, but he did make an effort to make openings for her. After a few glasses worth of talking, one of them dared to initiate a kiss, though it had gotten a little too hazy to tell which of them it was. They pulled away and looked at each other. Usually this sort of moment fanned sparks into a flame for Jaskier, but he felt nothing more than the warmth of a drunken flush.

“Your lips are nice.” Her words didn’t sound like a proposition, though.

“As are yours. But...” Jaskier’s mind raced for something quick to say before she could jump to a conclusion. She held up a hand to stall him, smiling slightly.

“It’s been a long night. I’m afraid _fishing_ would be rather exhausting.” Jaskier groaned and fell spread-eagled back against the bed.

“I suppose that’s his revenge for me inviting him.”

“Does the White Wolf not like parties?”

“Not a bit. I had to pay him for this.” He frowned. “Hm. Wrong tense. Have to.” He pondered that for a moment. “I’ll find him in the morning,” he dismissed.

“Do you mind if I stay? Since we aren’t fishing?” The word was more happenstance than teasing, this time.

“You can certainly stay, darling. I should go find your brother and have some words with him about passing you off to a complete stranger.”

“Oh, don’t bother.” She sighed, a blustery thing. Silence fell between them, and she looked a little smaller. “Thank you. For - for holding me.”

“It was no trouble.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “I was glad to,” he added. “It was nice to have someone to hold.”

He startled and frowned at a knock on the door.

“I’ve the lady’s handkerchief.”

“Oh!” Faffora climbed up from the bed, and Jaskier lurched up to steady her when she wobbled a bit. They both giggled over it before she made her way to the door and accepted her kerchief back with a quiet thanks.

“Good servants. I hope they at least _checked_ your room first.”

“I’m sure they did.”

Faffora folded the little square and set it carefully on the nightstand. She took another sip from her glass and then set it back down. A frown took over her face.

“What’s troubling you?”

“This damn dress. It’s such a hassle to get into. And I need help getting out of it.” Jaskier sat up. He reached for his glass to take another sip despite the fact that his head had spun a little. Then he frowned at the back of her dress. He reached for one of the knots and started working at it. What was possibly several minutes later, he had very little to show for it.

“Oh, never mind. My back aches.” She rolled her shoulders, driving him back.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” A yawn cracked her jaw, and she laid down carefully. Jaskier stared at her for a moment before laying down again, not even giving a little bit of effort to his doublet. His rather monstrous yawn echoed a little in the corners of the room, setting Faffora into a fit of giggles. They whispered and giggled, steadily growing drowsier. Jaskier hummed once he was too sleepy to think of anything else to say, and he eventually noticed Faffora’s breathing had evened out.

* * *

Jaskier hurried down the main street, his surroundings blurring with his focus on the Riverside. He was content despite his urgency. Gina needed help - she always did, but graduation set the inn to bustling. He practically danced out of the way of children playing a game of chase through the doorway. He fought his way through the crowd to check on a lost-looking table.

“Julian, love!” The moment he stopped, Gina was there, pressing a tray into his hands. “Grab that for me, will you, Jaskier?” He got a firmer grip on the tray and pressed a kiss to her temple before heading to the back corner table it was meant for.

“Has Essi stopped by yet?” He asked as he slid some duck to one occupant of the table, and a rare steak to the other.

“Gina’s keeping her busy on the other side of the room.” Renfri pointed. Jaskier glanced briefly and nodded. “Are you going to play?”

“Looks like she needs more help waiting tables than keeping everyone manageable,” Jaskier remarked, scanning the room again. “I’ll get back to you in a moment, Renfri, I think there’s going to be a food fight.”

“Hold on.” Her friend’s voice was arresting, and Jaskier was entirely distracted from the potential food fight. He met her black eyes, and she drummed her fingers on the table. She nodded decisively. “That thread of the tapestry is changing hands, it seems. Alright, shoo.” She smiled, and Jaskier turned around to a suddenly resuming food fight.

* * *

He woke up gasping. He fumbled for his notebook, nearly smacking Faffora in the face. He hastily grabbed his charcoal and wrote down all he could remember. His mother’s face had been so vivid. Her friend had been eerie, in hindsight. He hadn’t minded her white-less eyes or sharper teeth during the dream, but they haunted him now as he shivered in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little close to risking burn-out this week, even though I had a fair amount of this chapter ready in advance. I've got a lot of next chapter written, but I wanted to warn you guys in advance I might take a break! I'm not sure yet, but I didn't want to just duck out on you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just realized there's some trivia about Jaskier's identity in this verse that I haven't mentioned in the text yet. I'm not sure it will ever be _important_ , per say, as the later chapters in this story have been changing a fair amount, but I think it affects the Vibes a reader may get from a line about an interaction with the Countess at the beginning here. I might get long-winded, bear with me a second. 
> 
> I'll give you the TL;DR up front: to everyone who isn't Renfri or Gina, Jaskier is just Julian of Oxenfurt, very much not a noble.
> 
> I'll put the long-winded version in the end note ^_^

Jaskier was, perhaps, a little more drunk than was appropriate for a midday meal. He’d had one of those terribly vivid dreams about his mother again last night. He was endeavoring to avoid drinking them away, but when he’d realized Valdo Marx had been invited to today’s luncheon, he’d thrown caution to the winds and started drinking by breakfast.

So he _might_ have interrupted Valdo during his scheduled performance at lunch. And he _might_ not have had quite his usual mastery over pitch. But he’d thought the lyrics were rather flattering, comparing the Countess to the stars and his favorite color. After he was done, she pulled him aside and told him in no uncertain terms to pack his things and get out, which was _bullshit,_ but he knew better than to tell her so to her face, even drunk. And then Valdo Marx was still fucking _there_ after Jaskier had gotten his bags together. Valdo really ought to have known better than to try to talk to him - on the other hand, they were probably equally surprised when Jaskier’s punch actually landed. Jaskier had fled before he could get into any proper trouble with the Countess, feeling guilty for hurting Valdo and angry for feeling guilty.

He’d tried to soothe himself, walking and singing and drinking, but his mind would keep turning on itself and getting back onto the Countess’ upset, and how many times Valdo had ruined his fucking life, and how long it had been since he’d seen Geralt. It wasn’t that they’d completely missed each other in the last seven years, but it was like sighting the sails on a friendly ship before she was swallowed up by a storm. Still, he kept singing, because if he really _dwelt_ on any of the thoughts dogging his steps, he’d probably sit down and cry, then fall asleep right there on the forest floor, and _that_ was the beginning to far too many faerie stories for him not to suspect a grain of truth.

He thought he spotted something tall and brown between the branches, and he wended his way toward it, his mood buoying when he saw that it was, as he’d assumed, a horse. Roach had made him partial to brown horses. He recalled the local gossip as he drew closer - the White Wolf was surely nearby, people had whispered. When rumors flew, what people had almost invariably actually seen was some well-muscled blonde young man with hazel eyes. Not that Jaskier didn’t enjoy _seeing_ that type of man, it’s just that the last seven years made getting his hopes up rather rough. As he drew closer, though, he noticed the horse’s blaze - that was a good sign. Usually the misattributed horses had stars or bald faces. He cast his gaze over the area, stopping in his tracks. The figure on the bank had the right shade of hair, and the ease with which he cast his net left no doubt about his superhuman strength.

“Geralt!”

It was freeing to be able to talk at length - most people got fed up _long_ before Geralt did, and nobles tended to have even less patience for his ramblings. He told stories, asked questions and either let them hang or answered them for himself. When he finally got a question in return, he knew it was a bid to change the subject away from destiny, but he was happy to engage, at least until his brain caught up a few words into his answer, and he had to pursue the veiled insult.

He hadn’t expected it to be followed with an outright insult. _A pie with no filling._ Sure, Geralt had cast aspersions on his singing before, but at that point Jaskier had always been singing for hours and deliberately choosing songs he knew Geralt found most annoying. Today, it was the first fucking thing he said to Jaskier.

“Are you _trying_ to hurt my feelings, Geralt? It’s down - downright indecorous of you, if I’m completely honest, and -” He did want an answer, or he wouldn’t have bothered stuttering past the drink trying to trip up his tongue. But Geralt had something new and interesting and not-a-fish in his hands, drawing Jaskier’s eye immediately. 

“What is that?”

“It’s a wizard’s seal. The djinn.” _Perfect_.

“Do you mind if I -”

“Jaskier...”

“Take back that bit about my fillingless pie.” He’d forgotten how strong Geralt could be when he wasn’t actually willing to budge. He was putting so much of his weight into pulling that he might fall if Geralt let go. Either Geralt was being nice or being stupid, because all he did was tug back. “Take it back, and then you can have your djinny-djinn-djinn.”

“Let go.” Had this man paid attention for a single second of the time they’d been friends? Jaskier did not, in fact, let go, even when Geralt’s hand caught the stopper instead of the amphora and left him holding something apparently empty. There was a moment of nothing, and then - well, then, as long as he spoke first, he could have anything he could think of, couldn’t he? His mind was still back at the Countess’s estate. First he wished for Valdo to get what was coming to him, then he wished to have the Countess back - she was grounding while still being inspiring, not to mention _endlessly_ satisfying. He only got as far as opening his mouth to wish that Geralt would do whatever was necessary to be nicer to him, thereby letting him have his oh-so-precious nap, before he was yanked back by his collar.

It felt good to shout, and it felt good to break things. He certainly felt less guilty over breaking something than harming someone, although the look on Geralt’s face did make him resolve to see if they could find a more natural solution to his problem. As Geralt bent down, the air started to feel thicker. Much thicker. Right. Fuck. Djinns were _wind_ spirits.

He watched the magic of the knockback sign drive the djinn away - _I still haven’t asked him the name of the damn thing,_ he thought - and expected clear air on the next inhale. But it wasn’t clear. It was worse. He couldn’t get any air. Why couldn’t he get any air? An arm appeared in his field of vision, and he reached out for it. Geralt was firm and steady in his grasp, but that couldn’t distract from the way something was building up on his tongue, tasting of metal. He coughed, and out came a mouthful of blood. He looked to Geralt. With a thrill of terror, he realized that Geralt didn’t have any more idea what was going on than he did. The witcher looked around wildly and then manhandled Jaskier into standing up straight, which felt worse.

“Hurts,” he wheezed.

“Where?”

“Chest. Throat. Fuck.” Blood welled up again as he bent to cough. Only Geralt’s hands kept him from falling to his knees.

“Fuck.” Geralt shuffled him around for a moment to get him near-standing again, and Jaskier would never admit to the sounds he made if he could help it. Geralt started them in Roach’s direction. Did Geralt seriously expect him to _walk_ right now?

His horror ratcheted higher as he realized that no, he didn’t. Geralt grabbed one of his packs and had Jaskier stand on it, and then helped him get his foot into the stirrup.

“Gina’s not going to like this letter,” he managed between wheezes. She’d been furious enough about the drowners, and that was when Geralt had known what to do.

“Stop talking,” Geralt snapped. “No point in worrying about writing to your mother if you’re not alive to do it.”

Even he had no idea what the noise he was making should’ve been - whether it was a laugh or a sob. Whatever it was, it was drowned in blood, and Geralt swore as he helped him aim away from Roach’s back. He’d called Gina his mother before to Geralt, but he’d never parroted it back like that, and he couldn’t help but think of Renfri. She’d be so disappointed in him for trying to wish death on Valdo, especially when he’d managed to befriend Geralt. Murder-by-djinn definitely broke his promise. Would she think it was funny that he was going to die by Geralt’s side, when she’d met her end at his hands?

Geralt shifted him back and climbed into the saddle himself. The moment Geralt was sure he wouldn’t fall off, they were moving. A queasy stomach quickly joined his iron-flavored mouth and air-starved lungs.

* * *

* * *

Yennefer stood at the foot of the bed and stared at the blood-stained figure lying upon it. A djinn’s curse was going to be harder to work with than sloughing off some two-mark mage’s curse. Besides that, the magic seemed strange, somehow. Perhaps it was just that it was from a djinn, but it made her skin crawl a little. She was glad she’d convinced the witcher to give her some distance.

“What are you?” Yenn muttered to herself, crossing to the other side of the bed again. He wasn’t nearly as dead as he should've been with the intention she could feel bound up in the curse, and her own efforts were proving weaker than they ought to be. She summoned up as much chaos as she dared to put him into a sort of stasis. He wasn’t healing, but he wasn’t deteriorating. Some time bought. She finally removed her mask, placing it on the vanity. She circled the bed again. He would hold, so long as she did nothing else. There was no way she’d get away with the risk of the bard’s death that would come with doing anything else, not while the witcher was still in the house. She pursed her lips and set about copying the djinn’s seal at the foot of the bed. When she was done, she conjured a change of clothes for Geralt and headed downstairs.

* * *

That covered several birds with a single stone. Now she was free to pursue the djinn regardless of what happened to the bard, and a witcher was almost guaranteed to take care of that little political problem. If he didn’t - well, they’d kill him. A loss of a fine body and a trove of stories, but - he was rather a brute, wasn’t he?

She grabbed her paint and stood at the foot of the bed for a short while, the air cool against her body. Whatever happened next, better to apply the paint first. The bard would either die or make his wishes. Either ought to happen quickly. Either ought to set the djinn free. Better to be prepared. She didn’t _want_ the bard to die. She’d be losing the challenge that the gods or destiny or what-have-you were setting her today. But if he did, it would be only collateral damage, not pointless - she’d make sure of that.

The paint didn’t take long, and then she was back to circling the bard. He’d be more unstable now, due to the stasis. She couldn’t say she _liked_ this challenge - he was already reacting oddly. No matter. She prepared a mental list and lifted the spell. Her first strategy didn’t work. Nor did the second, nor the third. She would never admit to being stunned when she reached the bottom of her list with even the strongest of spells only making a dent.

His breaths grew further apart. His heart slowed to a witcher’s speed and kept slowing. He grew paler. Then, he fell silent. Dead silent.

“Damn,” she muttered. That stung, but it was fine. Less talking if she didn’t have to coerce wishes from him. She crossed quickly to the seal, spreading her arms and her chaos both, looking to grab it before it could go. She cast her chaos like a net and inhaled to begin the incantation.

A sound interrupted her concentration. A terrible gasp. Her arms still before her, she stared at the bed. The bard was still bloodstained, but his throat was a smooth, continuous expanse once more. He was staring at her, but he didn’t look scared or relieved, like she’d expect of a man who knew he’d been snatched from death. He just looked confused, as she’d expect of someone who’d just been dragged rapidly from one place to another and then put into a magical sleep only to wake up to - well. All this.

“Hello,” he said cautiously, eyeing the parting of her robe, her outstretched arms. She narrowed her eyes at him. If he still held the wishes, it would be...incredibly unwise to try and hold onto the djinn. Yet she was wasting time if what she’d heard was a death - and she had been dead certain it was when she heard it, pardon the pun. Her eyes narrowed further.

“What are you?” His expression shuttered in an instant.

“A bard.” He rubbed at his throat. “Still, I think. Good. Thanks to...you?” He sat up, and he couldn’t seem to decide whether to bolt for the door or keep his legs in front of him like a shield.

_A bard doesn’t just slough off my strongest spells._ She knew if she said it, he’d run. Whatever he was, he didn’t feel like disclosing it. One of the Fair Folk, perhaps? They were secretive like that. But not to fight back against the djinn, to not heal himself? He couldn’t be Fae. She shoved his strangeness forcefully to the back of her mind. This was her chance. She had to take it.

“Express your deepest desires and we’ll forget that you’re dodging the question.” Yenn advanced on him.

* * *

Well. If he was asleep, she refused to lay on the floor any longer, no matter how many cushions were strewn about. She belted her robe more firmly shut as she looked down at Geralt. She could feel an ember of fury, still, behind her well-pleasured languidness. She was going to make her desires come to fruition one way or another, even if witchers who were so certain they knew better than she did continued to get in her way. 

While the fury was buried, her curiosity was beginning to get the better of her. The bard was clearly something beyond garden variety human, but the longer she considered it, the less sense it made. Even if their meeting had been brief, he hadn’t behaved like anything she’d studied should have. Evidently he was harmless, if a witcher cared so much for him as to seek magical healing. Unless he didn’t know? The corners of her mouth turned down, just barely. She turned and made her way out of the ruins of the house.

After a sweeping, calculating gaze over the grounds, she began to pick her way toward the stable, wary of the potential for horse apples against her bare feet. She found she’d guessed correctly before she’d fully reached her destination.

“Alright. All rubbed down. Now, darling, please - let me - hey, no! He’ll roast me on a spit if I half-arse this. Come on, Roach, there’s apple slices in it for you. Please?”

“I do believe that’s the first time I’ve seen anyone begging a horse.” She let her tone carry the weight of how many years that was good for, and wondered if he'd be stupid enough to ask.

The bard jumped, swearing loud enough for Roach to pin her ears back briefly. When she saw the pick in his hand, her eyebrows rose.

“Aren’t you meant to start with that?”

“Starting with the washing involves less kicking, and that’s only after a few years of bribery. Is he right behind you?” He craned his neck to look past her at the door.

“He’s resting.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” He set the pick aside and scrambled out of the stall. “I have to talk to you.”

“Really?” Well, that worked out. Perhaps he’d tell her what was making magic behave so strangely around him without her even having to admit ignorance to it. It was rather worrisome he was only willing to talk without Geralt’s presence, however, so she kept her chaos close.

“About that question you asked, before.” He gave a vague gesture at where the other floor of the house had been. “Don’t tell Geralt you thought to ask it.”

“So you’re _not_ human, then.” She crossed her arms and arched a brow at him.

“I _am_ , it’s just...complicated.” He seemed to wilt.

“Complicated _how_?”

He pressed his lips together, his eyes darting away from her face. No. Absolutely not. He’d used up more than his share of her patience today, awake or not. She took a step forward to draw his eye to the movement, and she listened. _You can’t just say_ that _and nothing else, what the hell were you planning to say, she’s a_ mage _\- no matter what crumb you give her here, if she passes it on --_ the coherency of his thoughts dropped off, less words and more swirling emotions and flashes of worst case scenarios. She did recognize a recurring face, however.

“If you’re worrying about the Brotherhood, don’t. My life is mine, and they have no say in it.” He nodded and took a deep breath.

“The magic misbehaving...that’s inherited. My mother was the same. I’m certain she was human, but she might’ve argued it with you.” He sighed - a deep, haunted thing. “She might’ve been right, I don’t _really_ know. So, human-but-complicated. I don’t know if Geralt suspects, but I’m certain he doesn’t _know_ . If he finds out...if _anyone_ finds out...this - the travelling, the songs, the magical mishaps. It’s likely over then and there. And I _want this.”_ The passion in his voice was raw and a little startling. She got the impression he’d already fought to get here, somehow. He stared at her. She stared steadily back at him. 

“You shouldn’t ask favors of mages, bard. You never know how steep our rates will be,” she said eventually. He went rigid. “I’ll keep your secret,” she dismissed, rolling her eyes. “But you’ll do well not to forget that you owe me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before the long-winded version of Jaskier's nobility, a fun fact for you: He's singing Yellow by Coldplay to the Countess (In my defense I didn't know it was by Coldplay I was thinking of the Jodie Whittaker cover)
> 
> So! I figure Renfri assumes, possibly correctly, by the time she has Jaskier, that she's been removed from Creyden's line of succession, so she gives Jaskier a name that's entirely disconnected from Creydenian royalty. He's still technically Julian Alfred Pankratz in this verse, but only Gina and Renfri know that, _maybe_ Essi & Ellen, but they don't know why. However, (and this is just a funny part of my thought process which was 'WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I FIND LETTENHOVE ON THESE GODDAMN _MAPS')_ she still wants to give him a title, to make him important in spite of her stepmother. So she made him viscount of a made-up place, Lettenhove, which she would make real for him if she ever did get to return to her family and a 'normal' life.
> 
> So my Jaskier is:  
> In public: Julian of Oxenfurt | Jaskier  
> To his Moms: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove | Dandelion | Jaskier  
> Technically (because it might be funny to make an AU or storyline about it): a Creydenian prince ~~shhhh i don't know how lines of succession work *eagle noises*~~


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier didn’t really notice the first few flakes. Spring had sprung, so they were easy to dismiss as a light shower. The clouds gathered more densely above them, though, and the snowflakes strengthened enough to remain solid for a brief moment before melting against his lovely doublet, and it became too difficult to miss. He crossed his eyes to look at a flake that fell on his nose. He looked up at the sky first, and then his focus slid over to Geralt. He widened his eyes a bit and gave in to the urge to pout.

Geralt met his gaze and rolled his eyes. He didn’t frown, though - plus, his eyes slid away to scan the edge of the path rather than staying fixed ahead. Jaskier smiled to himself, glad to be indulged. They found a cave without an occupant in no more than half-an-hour - a good thing, too, as Jaskier’s clothes were actually beginning to feel damp. Nonetheless, he made himself useful gathering firewood: a thanks for Geralt agreeing to set his goal aside for the duration of the bad weather. He frowned as he returned.

“It’s all a bit damp from the snow.”

“Give it here.” Jaskier helped him set up the wood and then stood back. Geralt had to use the sign once or twice to coax the dampness from the wood, but the next caught and started their campfire.

“That one’s called Igni, right?”

Geralt nodded and looked up at him. It was a questioning look, and Jaskier had a good guess at what it meant.

“My Astronomy professor. He taught history, too, and he had this great old tome.” Jaskier held his hands apart in an approximation of its thickness. “Before I started at the Academy, he was already a regular at the Riverside. Sometimes he would give it to me when Gina needed me kept busy. I think...it was a history of mages, maybe? Because it didn’t have _that_ much about witchers. But it mentioned signs. I haven’t read it in a good age and a half, though.” He folded himself down onto the cave floor, rubbing warmth into his arms. Geralt stood from his crouch next to the fire and went to rummage in Roach’s packs. “What’s that one that knocks people back? I keep meaning to ask.”

“Aard.” Something fell on his head. Jaskier pawed his way back into the cool night air and gave Geralt his best affronted glare. He wrestled the blanket into a comfortable position around his shoulders as Geralt settled on the cave floor - not next to him, but not on the opposite side of the fire, either.

“There’s one that makes a magical shield, isn’t there?” He’d grabbed his steel sword and whetstone while he was up. He settled into the work of sharpening.

“Quen.”

“What was the one from that one time I pissed off that buck?”

“One time?” Geralt quipped. Jaskier pouted again. “That was Axii.”

After a few moments of letting the blanket capture the fire’s heat, he shrugged it off to get his lute and then settled himself again. He just listened to the sound of the whetstone for a moment, and then he began to pluck some improvised nonsense. He’d done it a few times before, turning Geralt’s sword-sharpening into a metronome. It could get meditative when they were both at it for a while. His gaze softened into a half-focus and his fingers carried on without much thought on his part. Renfri’s brooch caught the firelight as Geralt worked, the jewels glinting like there were stars captured inside.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt demanded suddenly. Jaskier blinked rapidly, only now realizing that the sound of the whetstone had been absent for several moments. The blinking caused tears to roll down his face. He frowned and raised a hand to swipe across his cheeks and beneath his eyes. Only then did he realize what his mindless playing had become.

“No...gods, I didn’t realize I still knew that.” He let the lute hang by its strap to dry his face more thoroughly.

“Do you...not want to talk about it?” _Should_ he elaborate? This could get into territory he still didn’t want to touch. But it was honestly rather sweet of Geralt - he wasn’t sure there had been a single other time in their friendship that he’d prompted him to talk.

“It’s a song my mother used to sing to me. Usually when I was being stubborn. Or when we were doing something that needed some rhythm.” Practicing with wooden daggers she’d helped him carve, helping Gina knead dough, making and patching up Shrike. “I...huh. Gina hasn’t really tried singing it. Makes sense, I suppose, with the whole ‘bursting into tears at Mum’s nickname’ thing.”

“You had another mother?”

“She was the one that bore me.” He set his lute aside and drew his legs up to his chest. “People would mistake her for my big sister, sometimes.”

“Do you take after her, then?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Jaskier said briskly. “I damn well hope so, but I never knew the man who sired me.”

“Deadbeat, or worse?”

“Let me put it this way. There were twelve years’ difference between my mother and I.”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully and shifted his grip on his sword. “Do you know where he lives?”

“He’s dead.” His thin, maliciously pleased smile probably gave away more than it ought to.

“Hm.” Geralt’s gaze fell to the brooch, and silence descended. Jaskier was happy to let it wrap around them like the warmth of the fire, quickly going back over the conversation to make sure he hadn’t given too much away. He slowly started to frown, his mind catching on his mention of nicknames.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“How did I introduce myself?”

“Hm.” That one sounded amused. “You didn’t.”

“What?” He frowned, his brows pulling together.

“You never got around to it at Posada.” Which...made sense, considering how little he’d trusted Geralt at the time. “And I was the only one that spoke when you decided to bathe in the river.” Jaskier rubbed his calf at the reminder. “It was the first time you ordered a bath for me. Caught your name from the innkeeper.”

“Well. Fuck, sorry.” Jaskier blinked. He shifted the blanket around so he could shuffle closer to Geralt and stuck out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Geralt of Rivia. I’m Julian of Oxenfurt, but most people call me Jaskier these days.”

Geralt did not take his hand. “Julian?” Was he - balking?

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Geralt was still staring at him, unmoving. “You...can still call me Jaskier, you know. In fact, I insist. Even the rest of my family use Jaskier, unless I’m in trouble. It would be odd for you to do any different.”

Slowly, Geralt clasped his hand and shook it once. “I’m not from Rivia,” he admitted as their hands fell away.

“Really?”

“We have to pick something when we start on the Path." It seemed for a moment that he was just going to let that little tidbit hang, but - "Vesemir vetoed my choice," he practically mumbled.

“Would it have fit into Toss A Coin?”

“...No,” Geralt admitted.

Jaskier began guessing - some guesses were greeted with denials, others only with rolled eyes. Eventually, Geralt got up to relieve Roach of her burdens so she could lay down to sleep if she felt the need. Jaskier laid out the bedrolls. When he was done with Roach, Geralt banked the fire, striking a decent balance of safety and warmth. He settled onto his bedroll easily in the dimness.

“Good night, Jaskier.”

“Sweet dreams, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading this back through, I'm a little worried it looks like Geralt's already guessed Jaskier's identity. For what it counts, that's not my intention (but we all know that author's intentions are for putting into the blender /j). Just that he's noticed similarities but doesn't have enough to jump to conclusions yet.
> 
> Is that the impression you got, or am I worrying about nothing?
> 
> Thank you ❤️️


	8. Chapter 8

“Easy,” Geralt murmured, guiding him to sit against a tree with hands on his shoulders. Jaskier followed, though he resented the gentleness in Geralt’s voice.

“You’d think I was useless.” He _had_ managed to hold his own using his daggers, but now he was trembling and nausea was pressing threateningly at his throat.

“Didn’t realize those weren’t just for show.” Geralt stepped away to look over the bandits’ corpses.

 _"Nearly_ are. I only practice during the winter.”

“Really?” The word had a complicated undercurrent that Jaskier was too wrung out to try and decode.

“The walking is enough exercise all its own - I don’t need you forcing me to drill with them every time we make camp.”

“Force is a strong word.” Geralt dumped a few coin purses into his lap, then went to gather the fallen weapons. Jaskier closed his eyes in exhausted exasperation. “I’d _strongly recommend_ it.” A weak smile touched on Jaskier’s face at his friend’s amusement.

“Oh, well, if _that’s_ all.” He opened his eyes and wiped his blade on his trousers, given that they were a lost cause, anyway. And then, because he was an idiot, he let his mouth run away with him.

“Did she use a dagger or a sword?”

“Who?” Geralt frowned. Jaskier's sudden stillness rivaled that of a deer caught in the sweep of a lantern.

“No one. Fuck.” He ducked his head to focus on trying to sheathe one of his daggers, but his hands were shaking even worse now.

“Jaskier.” Geralt knelt down. His hands folded over Jaskier’s, stilling them. Reluctantly, Jaskier raised his eyes to Geralt’s own. “Who?”

He let a long moment pass, but Geralt looked so earnest, and being circumspect took energy he simply didn’t have. “Princess Renfri. You don’t have to answer,” he added quickly, his eyes falling to their hands again. “It was a bad question. Sorry.”

Then it was Geralt’s turn to be silent. His hands stayed right where they were. His grip didn’t tighten or grow heavier. He didn’t abandon Jaskier. He just...knelt there.

“It’s your sort of question,” he said eventually. He released his hands and sat down next to him, just out of reach, and firmly out of sight unless Jaskier turned his head more than he was willing. That was okay. If this conversation went on long, Jaskier would likely be glad of it. “I’d rather not have a ballad made of it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sometimes I think about setting the record straight,” Jaskier admitted. “Because I’m certain that the story everyone’s heard is worse at being truthful than one of mine.” Jaskier sighed. “But you needn’t worry. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“It’s not as though everyone’s story is that far from the truth, anyway,” Geralt rumbled. Jaskier imagined him tipping his head back, and he did the same.

“Nuance, Geralt. Matters.”

“Nuance doesn’t change the fact that I drove her own dagger into her throat.”

It didn’t help that he’d already been nauseous from the fight. He didn’t have any hope of suppressing or hiding it. He managed the presence of mind to do his retching away from Geralt. They were dirty enough without them _both_ being covered in sick. When he’d finished, his head was throbbing. He drew his legs up and pressed his forehead between them so he didn’t have to sit up entirely straight.

“She used both. And she used them well. But she lost.”

Jaskier shivered.

“Tell me about her.” His voice was definitely strange when he said it. He’d write it off as a symptom of the situation later, if Geralt asked.

“I met her in a tavern, too.” Gods, but his heart soared to hear it, to hear he’d done something the way she had. “I’d killed a kikimora on the way into town and I wanted rid of it. They wouldn’t tell me where to find the alderman. There was nearly a fight, she stepped in. She had a few words to say. State of my clothes was one of the things she commented on,” he remarked wryly. “Kept things level-headed until the alderman’s daughter found me.” He paused, possibly considering what came next in his tale. “I never made it to the alderman. He needed something else. I was told the local wizard might have some use for it.”

“Stregobor.” Jaskier’s voice was dark, and his hands clenched around his daggers.

“What he really wanted was Renri, dead. He believed in a curse on an eclipse.”

“The Black Sun,” He practically growled. “There were _sixty_ of them, weren’t there?” The despair in his voice hopefully came off as someone simply grieving over needless death and nothing more personal. “Did he really kill _all_ of them?”

“He implied there were natural causes for the ones he locked in towers.” Geralt’s voice dripped with disgust and distrust. “He locked them up because he was certain they had internal mutations.” Jaskier spared a moment of horrified musing on whether Stregobor had ever guessed wrong. He supposed he hadn’t, or more countries than Cintra would take issue with Brotherhood-assigned court mages. Geralt inhaled. He yanked his focus back onto the story. “Apparently it was destiny that we arrived in town around the same time. Killing her would be the lesser evil.” The words combined with the bitterness they were spoken in chimed against something in his memory. He’d said something like that to Filavandrel, hadn’t he?

“She found me again, afterward. She knew enough to know where Marilka had taken me. And she decided to give me her side of the story. There was a man Stregobor had ‘dispatched’.” Jaskier’s ears rang. He already knew this part of the story. He wished he could tune it out. He didn’t dare. He might miss too much, and he’d waited decades to have more than a child’s third-hand account. “He raped Renfri and got a brooch in his ear for his trouble. To me, a man who raped and got killed for it sounds much more real than a girl cursed to enjoy killing for no reason. Then _she_ brought destiny and the lesser evil into it.”

“Bit more genuine coming from a twenty-one year old than Master Coward of Old-As-Balls.” Geralt snorted, then shook his head.

“Her age was all the more reason for her to have let go and gone to make a life.”

“Please, Geralt. You heard all that and you think he would’ve let her live in peace?” He said it too quickly, too sharply. “All he really would’ve had to do would be to - to hire a Cat or something, send them straight to - wherever she found.” Fuck. He’d nearly said ‘Oxenfurt’. “And that’s anything she built, demolished in an instant.”

“Mages don’t like to think of themselves as still being mortal, in the end. He’d sooner forget about her than admit she nearly killed him.”

“I think you’re wrong.” Silence followed that proclamation.

Geralt stayed quiet for long enough for Jaskier to begin cursing himself silently. He almost missed when Geralt started again.

“She found me later. Told me she’d made her choice.” A long beat of quiet. “She gave me a...prophecy,” he said reluctantly. “Was vague enough it could’ve been horseshit.” Geralt hummed softly to himself. “Don’t know why she'd have bothered with the girl or the flower if it were, though."

Jaskier frowned. “A girl and a flower?”

“The girl in the woods will be with me always, apparently.” He could practically hear Geralt’s rolled eyes. “And Renfri’s flower will bloom forever in my wake.”

Jaskier’s breath shuddered.

“Turns out she’d lied about her choice. Her prophecy mentioned the market, so I went. Assumed the worst, brought my sword. Her men were there. Told me she’d gone to Stregobor’s tower with Marilka. That it was an ultimatum. I...saw them through the consequences. ...She came back. I was hoping Aard or a strong enough Axxi could sort things, but...magic didn’t work on her, she said. So we fought. She lost. Told me the girl in the woods would be with me always, again. Told me to look after her flower. Never have figured out if I’ve done as she asked.”

Jaskier knew he could smell the salt of his tears. Thankfully, he didn’t ask. It probably helped that even Jaskier didn’t know which part of the story overwhelmed him most.

“It was just...Renfri and her men?” He managed eventually, his voice far more rough than it ought to have been.

“Eight people, Jaskier.” There was a thread of warning in his tone, probably over the ‘just’.

“No, I know.” Jaskier shut his eyes again, overwhelmed. Suddenly, Blaviken seemed much more targeted than he’d ever imagined, and his grief twisted like a knife in his ribs. But right on its heels was a wave of hot, fist-clenching anger. It wasn’t directed at Geralt. Quite the opposite, actually. “Her men were all with her before Blaviken, weren’t they?”

“Hm.”

“So where the _fuck_ did they ever get off on calling you Butcher of Blaviken?”

“What?”

“Not a single one of them was from Blaviken. I’ve read enough to know that,” he managed to cover. “If I understood you, _they_ were threatening to kill people in Blaviken. You _saved_ Blaviken.” He hauled himself to his feet, still trembling, stomach still aching, but he suddenly needed to be upright and moving, letting his anger boil off into the air around him. “And the people of Blaviken spread that - that fucking name around, as though they had any right to hate you, as though they -” His throat caught before he could say what he wanted to say. ‘As though _they_ lost people they loved’. He whipped around. “Philkivon Marx said they stoned you. Tell me she heard it wrong.”

“Jaskier. It’s long passed.”

“Those mother _fuckers_ _!”_ He hurled one of his daggers at a tree adjacent to the one they’d been leaning against. It sunk through the bark. He swore - that wasn’t going to do the blade any favors. He stomped over to work it out. He heard Geralt get up and could feel him looming over his shoulder. Jaskier stayed facing the tree, even after he’d rescued his dagger.

“You called me Butcher, when we met.”

“Yeah, well, I was a different person when I was nineteen. And I didn’t know all...this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and regretted it in an instant. “We need a bath.” His energy drained quickly back out of him, and it was suddenly a struggle to stay standing. “Can you check the river?”

The silence stretched unbearably between them, and Jaskier’s shaking got worse. Just when he thought his knees might give out, Geralt hummed affirmatively and turned to leave. He sank to the ground once he was out of earshot. He was grateful to know, and yet. He wished he could forget _all_ of it, his side of the story as well as Geralt’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bah, the ending was fighting me. There was actually another half-sentence to the ending that I'm removing right at posting instead of at an earlier point in the editing process *sigh*
> 
> At some point I made a meme just to make myself giggle, and I figure this chapter's a good time to drop it: [hopefully you laugh as hard as I did when I made it ^_^](https://10moonymhrivertam.tumblr.com/post/645312944978132992/a-princesss-son-meme)
> 
> Alright......now we get into the parts that are a) plot rewrites or b) unwritten due to prior plot rewrites. We're still aiming for Wednesdays, but things might get rough 😅


End file.
